Because France Likes ‘Em… That Way
by HopelessOsaka
Summary: “He’s been sold to the black market, hasn’t he? He’s currently a love slave for France, isn’t he?” bewailed America. On Ireland, America being a total dolt around England again, and Mexico, chillin all up on America’s shoulders like a bad habit.


**Characters:** America, England, Ireland & Mexico. Yes, SRSLY

**Warning:** "Nude beaches"…? America's ignorance and sporadic stereotyping? o_o;;

**Summary:** "_He's been _sold_ to the black market, hasn't he!? He's currently _a love slave _for _France_, isn't he!?" _bewailed America. (On Ireland, America being a total dolt around England again, and Mexico, chillin all up on America's shoulders like a bad habit and…stuff.)

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**BECAUSE FRANCE LIKES 'EM… THAT WAY**

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"Did you molest him, England!?" America bellowed as he fell through his second story window (on his face).

"W-wh-what," cried England, "_are you doing, you git!?_"

It was a habit America had recently become attached to. Or was it a habit that had recently become attached to him? Or was it a Habit? A "habit?"

Or was it just Mexico? England was never too sure.

America leapt up from the floor in a strict military fashion, before slapping his hands upon England's shoulders. It felt like the weight of a thousand suns.

"Oi, you've put on a bit of weight there, America…"

"_Did you molest Ireland and leave him for dead _again_, England!?_"

"You know, you're getting your geography wrong again, you American twit—"

"_He's been _sold_ to the black market, hasn't he!? He's currently _alove slave _for _France _in place of _**you**_, isn't he!?"_

England promptly slammed his fist into America's nose.

America promptly reeled backwards. A sickening crack reverberated from his arched neck.

A moment passed. A trail of blood slipped down from a corner of his mouth.

Then he brought his head back forward again, and asked, seriously, "_Did you do it, or was it _**Canada**_? Damn_ that guy—"

"Do you even _know_ what rudeness is!? And did you just _die_ for a moment there!?"

"That's beside the point!" whined America— "_What about my Celtic history!?_"

"M-m-m-_'my!?' What 'my' are you talking about, America!?_ YOU don't have a 'Celtic history!' You barely have a history at all—"

"Hey, _untrue._ I'm _all _made of history—"

"Do you even know who the Celts _were_—?" England interrupted.

America paused.

Then he paused again.

Then— "A basketball—"

"_Get _out_—get _out _of my house, before you _infect me _with _stupid_ again, you _idiot_! For God's sake, the _Republic_ of Ireland is _right_ next door!_"

"H-hey! Hey! I know things about Ireland! They used to, you know, make up a large demographic of my population… probably… um, they like beer and gold and shamrocks and have red hair and stuff—"

"_What language do they speak?_" deadpanned England.

America paused (again).

"Th-th-they're predominately… Roman C-Catholics…"

"_You don't know, do you!?_"

"I-it depends! _I-is that a trick question?_"

America huffed for a second, shook his shoulders violently, allowed a shudder to course through the entirety of his body, and spoke (again):

"A-a-anyway, I heard you tattooed a part of Ireland above your left-or-right_orthird_ _nipple_—"

"That's just—what—I mean—it was, um—" sputtered England, "_Listen, you miserable git, just because you're called 'America' _doesn't mean Mexico and, um…that other…up north…Canada! don't also share your space—"

"_I. Don't. Care_," whispered America, "_Get. Him. _Off._ My._ **Shoulders**… Will you?"

"…No."

"_He's _staring_ at you, isn't he, that guy!? He staring at you _real_ creepy, ain't he, you *** ****** ***** ** ******* ****—!?"_ hollered America, at England's face. Spit specked the skin.

"Well, that's… kind of, umm—" England shut his mouth and pursed his lips, his gaze obstinately glued to a piece of lint in a corner of the room, before jolting— "_wait_— _Who _told_ you that!?_"

America stared at him blankly.

"The tattoo, _the tattoo, you idiot! Who told you about the tattoo!? Was it that dumb_arse_—_France_—_**again**—_!?_"

"Oh," started America, vaguely, "It was that naked redhead guy who's always tanning outside your porch. He told me to tell you to that you are 'a feckin idiot.' And that this nude idea just might be okay, 'you goddamn…bastard?'"

"You are an _idiot_."

"That's what Ireland said," said America.

England slapped him (again), before striding to the broken window and howling with all his might:

"_And get off my lawn, you wily _bastard_—!_"

"_Then give me back my_ _MP3 player, you worthless piece of _crap_—!_"

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**END**

* * *

For those of you who don't get it, Mexico was hanging off his shoulders. Glaring at whoever America talked to. And stuff. And as for nude beaches, I was just striking out blindly, but I did end up finding an article concerning Ireland, apparently one of the few countries in Europe without any, but in which a few were actually considering it… x'D

_;; Seriously, for those of you who don't live in the U.S. and are likely unknowing(?) of it, there's this issue with the U.S.-Mexico borderline…that the government decided to pick at like a scab few years ago… And it's oozing blood and gunk AND screw it GO TO WIKI.

Aah, anyway, this pathetic little piece ended up as the result of me going, "Where the hell is Ireland? ._.;; " (Did Himaruya ever end up drawing an 'Ireland-tan' that I completely missed or something? Not that I've heard of an Australia or India either, yet...)

Not that I live there or anything…not that I'm an expert or anything...

...The "Celtics" in the U.S. is a basketball team (wut).

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